Over the last few weeks, there have been a few requests for recent photographs of me. To be fair it is probably a valid request. On a journal about transformation, change and transition, its reasonable to expect that there will be some curiosity about my appearance, and how this transition is manifesting itself in the real world.
I am however extremely shy. Merely existing in the outside world, just being somewhere that I can be seen triggers anxiety. A photograph is not going to happen anytime soon.
A picture, we are told, is worth a thousand words. So that is what you will get…..One Thousand Words.
Let me walk you through the pictures I am looking at now. Its got to be pictures because I am pretty sure a recent single full length image of me does not exist. There are however a few individual shots, from which we can build a complete image.
The first thing you would notice if you were to see the photographs, is that there is no doubt that the treatment has triggered some changes. There is, for example barely a day that goes by when I do not hear compliments on my skin. It is apparently very soft, clear and feminine. My hair too, although not as long as I would like, is thicker, shinier and after a few sessions with a clever stylist, a gorgeous colour, and very nicely styled. Very nicely styled that is, as long as I have not been anywhere near it with a hairbrush. In which case it tends to resemble something a bit strange.
Its worth mentioning that in the photograph, you will notice that my face is glistening. No its not makeup. Its sweat. A neurological failure resulting in hyperhidrosis, which is neither pleasant to experience, or look at. Glistening I am told is the preferred method for describing feminine sweat. I glisten like a mirror ball hit by the light of a thousand lasers. When I stop glistening the hair in the affected areas becomes matted and dulled. It sticks lightly to the moistened skin and feels terrible. I’m uncertain how to describe it further since I can never bring myself to look too closely.
Moving down if you can see past my chins, you would notice my neck is just as thick as it ever was. Wide, chunky and ugly. So wide in fact, it is for the most part impossible for me to purchase necklaces that fit, pretty accessories that on most people would accentuate a delicate neckline, on me become instruments of torture slowly garrotting me and causing multiple layers of neck tissue (I’m trying not to say Fat) to roll over the necklace. Its not pretty.
Continuing the journey downwards it makes perfect sense for a thick neck to sit on broad shoulders. Large, square shoulders perfectly designed for a wide range of applications. Unfortunately looking nice in a feminine blouse, or dress is not on the list of those applications. The end result is that whatever I squeeze my shoulders into is a compromise, a compromise that never quite feels, or looks right.
You might, if you look closely at the photograph note that my wrists are surprisingly slender, this is a cruel twist, because attached to slender wrists are fingers that resemble wrinkled pork sausages. The kind you might be served in an upmarket hotel. Chubby, but short and a little pale in colour. My expertly manicured nails looking fantastic, but out of place. The slender wrists of course will always be exposed because my arms are exactly the wrong size for 99.9% of female sleeves. Being a fraction too long, which adds to the overall effect of appearing to be wearing something that doesn’t fit. Again the slender wrists are a a problem, because although slender, they are mostly unable to fit any of the gorgeous accessories available for adorning a feminine wrist. If I can get a bangle on, it will slowly restrict my circulation until my hand turns blue, and my sausage fingers look like they have gone off.
Heading back up the torso, and there is obvious growth in the Breast Tissue Area. I’d like to say pleasing growth, but as my partner pointed out this morning, most of the growth appears to be heading to the left or right side of my body, rather than forwards, which would be my preferred direction for my new boobs to be growing in. I’m giving a whole new meaning to the side boob, and I’m not sure I like it. Its certainly not going to catch on.
The waist, if I actually had one, would be the next thing to describe. Instead I will attempt to help you visualise a distended lump of highly toxic tissue clinging to all of my major organs sheathed in fabric designed to hide any such bulges. The problem is of course, that it doesn’t matter what manner of clothing I have eased myself into, there is no disguising obesity.
My legs cling reluctantly to my waist via a behind that remains unseen by me, so I am unable to add a description here. I’m pretty sure however the behind is not a good sight, because I am constantly urged to purchase longer tops…..
Legs offer me a final chance for me to wrestle with body incongruence. With a passion for shoes this should be the area in which I draw most joy. Alas my calves have joined forces with my neck and adopted a chunky stout appearance. I’ve decided they are best hidden from view behind boots and dense black jeans. Yes, I have been wearing dresses for the last few days, so there has been much glistening. Anecdotally I am assured my ankles are delicate and “well shaped” which of course just makes it harder when one realises they are stuck on the end of two gnarly stout legs that would not be out of place on a hardened Aussie bushman.
Overall, the appearance is of someone squeezed and contorted. Awkward, crumpled and ugly. If I was going to use a single word rather than a thousand, “Disgusting” would do it quite nicely.
If you know a forensic police artist feel free to pass on this thousand word description and ask them to sketch it out. I will gladly post the results.
This post today was brought to you by the concept of self loathing and lack of Venlafaxine.
Leave a Reply